The lie you feel compelled to tell is
One of meaning. Of excessive
Semiology and symbology.
The lie is thick and dull, like a blow
Upon a purpling bruise. Expected,
Wincing, but unavoidable.

It is the lie that drums its fingers in
Anesthetic rooms with blue lighting and
The solitary, seductive moans of monitors
And the beeping, electric-signals of fingers over mouths.
It implies a tragedy.

The lie of the cinema: the lie of the lone tubercular cough
And the flush tainting unblemished skin.

The lie on respiratory support is a strange thing:
A sickly but resilient cynicism paralyzed it first.
Then pickled the liver, dulled the brain, and last froze the heart –
All those gifts to clumsy poets who
Could think of no better analogy.